Memory
by Lila2
Summary: Even Mr. Sark was a boy once


Title: "Rememberence"  
  
Author: Lila  
  
Spoiler: None  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Series: One-Shot  
  
Summary: Even Sark was a boy once  
  
Ship': None  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Yes, "Elysium" is still coming, but this is something I started months ago and forgot all about. I added the last scene tonight and couldn't keep it under wraps any longer. It's not a love story by any means, sorry Sarkneyers, but it delves deep, deep into Sark. I guess you could consider it a prequel of sorts to "Elysium." Remember the backstory I promised? Well this is sort of it. Anyway, thanks for all the fantastic support for my stuff. I hope you enjoy!  
  
PS - While I thank you for all your wonderful support for "Against the Wall," I think it's going to stay a one-shot fic. With all on my plate: "Elysium" and a General Hospital story I'm trying to finish, I don't know when I'm going to get to this one again. BUT. . .if there's another part expect it to be from Sydney's POV. Hope that clears up any confusion.  
  
~ * ~  
  
"We do not know the true value of our moments until they have undergone the test of memory."  
  
- Georges Duhamel  
  
~ * ~  
  
I remember her the most at night, brushing her before the mirror, just before she'd go out and leave me alone. She would never be considered a beauty, pretty perhaps if she did herself up just right, but through my youth-clouded she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. After all, she was all I'd ever had. Not much older then myself, just fifteen years, she was tall and thin--too thin--like me because there was never enough to eat. She had blonde hair like mine, although hers had a dark line down the middle while mine was all nearly white. I mostly remember long tangled hair and enormous blue eyes, just like mine. "Your grandmum's eyes," she said once when she thought I was alseep. It was the most I'd ever heard her mention about my family. As far as I knew my father was dead. "Killed in street battle," I'd overheard her brag to a friend. "Best sniper the IRA ever saw," she'd continued, and while I was too young to know what a sniper was, I knew whoever my Da was he was someone to be proud of--unlike Mum.  
  
Every night she stand in front of the mirror wearing her "working clothes," things that showed her belly and thighs, things she'd never where when we went to the park during the day. She'd watch me through the mirror as she brushed her hair, a thin smile wavering on bright red lips. "Do I look pretty tonight?" she'd ask, and even though I liked her better without the colors around her eyes and hair so stiff with spray it stuck to my fingers, I'd always say yes. I knew how important my approval was. I might have been barely a boy but I was all she had. There was no one else to ask the same questions.  
  
"Be a good boy," she'd say and tuck me into bed, really just a ratty sofa covered in rough sheets. She'd smell of cheap perfume and cigarettes and fear. The harsh lighting did nothing to enhance her appearance. Her cheeks were thin, the bones pressing against the skin, and her eyes looked huge in her gaunt face. She tried to hide it, under six shades of blue powder, but she couldn't hide the fear, not from me.   
  
"Mum," I said. "Don't go out tonight. Will you stay here with me?"  
  
She pushed up from the bed, pulling on her skirt so it slid another inch down her hips. She wouldn't look at me, the same thing she did every time I asked her to stay, but I could see her lips quivering through the curtain of her hair. "You know I can't, baby. I gotta go to work so we can eat," she said and gestured to the empy cupboard above the sink.  
  
"But look how well I did this morning," I said and pointed to the four wallets on the bottom shelf of the cupboard. "We can use that to eat."   
  
She tapped the end of my nose and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "But not to pay bills too." She pulled away quickly and looked away, but not before I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes; I could feel them on my forehead too. I turned my back to her and hugged my bear to my chest. Even that wasn't mine. It had been hers as a child, "My most favorite thing in the world," she'd said when she'd given it to me, on my fifth birthday. "And now it's yours." He was a greying brown, with one eye missing, and a tear in his left foot--but I didn't care. I was too happy to have something all the other children had to worry about superficial wounds. "His name is Sark," Mum had said when I'd fallen in love with him. "It was supposed to be Star," she explained and pointed to a fading pink star on the bear's tummy. "I had a bit of a lisp as a child, and out came Sark. I know you'll love him anyway." And love him I did. At night, when Mum went to work and I was alone, it was Sark that got me through the night. I couldn't sleep a wink without him.  
  
She brushed my hair off my forehead and pulled the blankets up to my chin. "I love you baby," she whispered, brushing madly at her eyes as she gathered up her bag and smoothed her clothes one last time. "I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
Only tomorrow never came. She wasn't there when I woke up the next morning and I dressed myself and pinched a wallet on my way to school. She wasn't there when I got home either and I heated up cold beans by myself. At eight she still wasn't home and I tucked myself into bed, hoping everything was okay. It wasn't the first time she hadn't come home for a day or more. Sometimes, when she met a particularly wealthy client, she woudn't come home for days, and when she did, we'd go out to eat and buy new clothes and spend the money like crazy. But those days were few and far between and I hadn't had a new outfit in nearly six months. I sighed, hugged Sark to my chest, and somehow drifted off to sleep.  
  
It was nearly midnight when I woke to the sound of the door slaming. My mum stood in the doorway, her shoulders shaking and blacks streaks dripping down her cheeks. Her clothes were torn, her hair messy, and a purpling bruise covered one eye. She always smelled when she came home, a mixture of cheap perfume and cigarettes and night air and something musky I could never quite put my finger on, but tonight all I could smell was fear. "Mum?" I said hesitantly, clutching Sark under one arm. "Mum, where have you been?"  
  
"Get dressed," she whispered and began throwing clothes at me. Her movements were uneven and her hands shook as she picked up my jeans.   
  
"Mum--" I tried again.  
  
"We don't have time to talk," she said and began pulling my pajamas off and shoving on the street clothes. "Just get dressed. I'll explain later." I silently slipped into my jeans and sweater, adding my oversize coat, aquired from the local church's charity drive. "Get together everything you need," she said. "You won't be coming back."  
  
At the time I think I was too young to fully understand her words, that I wouldn't be returning to the only home I'd ever known or the only person I'd ever loved. Or most importantly, understood that it was I who wouldn't return, not both of us. Without saying a word I picked up the few clothes I had and shoved them into a gym bag, the one posession I had of my father's. "He was a boxer," my mother said. "One of the best. He would have been a professional, but some people burn out before their time." That was all she'd ever said about my father and I never asked. It had never seemed worth it to get Mum all upset about someone who didn't exist anymore.   
  
Outside was dank and chill, a brisk winter wind blowing through the tears and holes in my coat. I wrapped it tightly around myself, but it did little to protect from the harsh cold. A taxi was waiting and Mum shoved me in the backseat and barked instructions at the driver. I sank into the cracked leather and watched Belfast fly by in a rush of gray buildings and empty streets. Mum sat beside me, still in her work clothes, one foot tapping insistently against the floor. Her eyes darted back and forth nervously and she chewed on her fingers, biting the nails to the core.   
  
"Mum," I asked. "Where are we going?"   
  
It took her a moment to respond and when she finally looked at me her eyes were wild. "What?" she whispered.  
  
"Going," I asked hesitantly. "Where are we going?"   
  
She smiled at me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Come here, baby." I snuggled against her side, watching her warily. Her shoulders shook slightly and her cheeks were tear-stained. She ran a hand through my hair and laughed a little. "You're hair's a mess. I guess we forgot to brush it this morning."  
  
I nodded. "We didn't have time."  
  
"We'll brush it later. Baby--" she started, but her voice cracked and she pressed a hand to her eyes. "Just sit, okay? No more questions." We spent the rest of the ride that way, snuggled together, her hand stroking my hair and silent tears running down her cheeks. I remember being scared, but I didn't let it show. My mother was little more than a child herself and one of us had to be strong. This time, as it usually did, the responsibility fell on me.   
  
The taxi stopped in front of a warehouse in a part of town I didn't recognize, not an easy feat considering the amount of time I spent on the streets. I was only seven-years-old, but I'd been scamming businessmen and pinching wallets since I was four. Decrpit buildings and dark alleys were second nature to me, but this place set my bones on edge. There was something about this particular building that made me curl into my mother's side and do something I hadn't done in forever--act my age. Suddenly, it all sank in and I realized the truth: I'd never see my mother again. I started to cry, terrified of whatever lay before me. We stayed there together, arms wrapped around each other, and our bodies shaking with sobs. I didn't know where I was going or why, but I knew I never wanted to let her go.   
  
The cab driver looked at us impatiently through the rearview mirror and my mother hurriedly shoved a few bills in his hand. "Thanks," she whispered, brusing away tears, but he rolled his eyes and gestered for us to get out of his car.  
  
Holding tightly to my mother's hand I followed her into the building. It was cold inside, and dark, lit only by a single bulb in the center of the room. There was chair, and sitting pertly, as if she had been waiting for us, was my destiny. It was a long time ago, but I can still remember every detail about her that morning. She was beautiful, really beautiful, but there was something cold about her beauty. Even at the age of seven I could sense the danger surrounding this woman, the violence and pain. Her hair was dark, her eyes were shadowed, her smile was cold. As she rose gracefully from the chair and tossed her hair over her shoulder I shivered. Her eyes were like ice, watching me under hooded lids. I took a nervous step towards my mum and she wrapped an arm around my shoulders, holding me against her body.   
  
The woman patted the chair and beckoned me towards her. I buried my head in my mother's chest instead. She tried again, but I wasn't budging. I burrowed closer to my mother, wrapping her coat around me. I didn't know a thing about this mysterious woman and I didn't want to. All I wanted to do was go home and pretend this was all a bad dream, but instead I felt my mother's arms drop to her sides. I peaked out from under her coat and found the strange woman gesturing to me again.  
  
"Come here, child," she said quietly. Her voice was soft, cultured, with the hint of an accent I didn't yet recognize. I shook my head stubbornly and turned back to my mother. The woman cleared her throat loudly and my mother pulled her coat open and pried away my arms.  
  
"Go on, baby," she whispered and gave me a gentle push between my shoulder blades.  
  
I took a few steps forward and stood defiantly, half way between my mother and the mystery lady. I squared my shoulders and looked the lady straight in the eye, challenging her to come fetch me herself. The lady laughed, the sound echoing through the empty warehouse, and turned to my mother. "He's a stubborn one, Mary," she said. "I think he'll do."  
  
My mother smiled triumphantly and tilted her face upwards, her lips moving in silent prayer. My eyes darted between my mother and this woman in confusion. "I would do? What on earth did that mean?"  
  
The woman turned from my mother and focused on me. "Hello, Conor," she said. "My name is Irina. It's nice to meet you."  
  
"It's nice to meet you too," I said automatically, falling back on the manners my mother had forcibly instilled in me.   
  
"Can you come a bit closer? I have something I'd like to discuss with you." I took a few wary steps towards her, dramtically lessening the gap between us. "Today is a very special day, Conor. Do you know why?"  
  
"No," I whispered.  
  
"Things have been hard, haven't they? You're cold at night, there's never enough to eat." She lifted up my sweater, smiling because every rib pushed against my skin. "You're mother made a wise decision today. Everything is about to change, Conor. Do you understand?"  
  
I shook my head. "I don't understand."  
  
She kneeled before me, looked me straight in the eye. Hers were a deep, dark brown, ringed with ice. They scared me to death but I refused to look away. I wasn't going to let this woman best me, not now, not ever. "You're going to come live with me, Conor," she said smoothly. "You're going to be mine."  
  
I broke the stare then, turned, and bolted for my mother. She gathered me in trembling arms, pressing kisses all over my face. "I don't want to go, Mummy," I cried. "Don't make me go!"  
  
I don't know which of us cried more, our throats clogged with tears, but somehow my mother managed to speak. She brushed the hair off my forehead and looked into my eyes. "Irina is our friend, baby. She's going to take care of you, give you everything I can't. You'll have good food and new clothes and the best schools. You'll be so happy, baby. You'll see. You won't even realize I'm gone."  
  
"I don't want that! I only want you! Don't leave me, Mummy."  
  
She smiled through her tears, brushed at the black streaks staining her cheeks. "You'll never leave me, baby. You're gonna remember me forever. Remember that day at the lake? We went swimming and ate cake and sang songs on the beach?" I nodded slowly. She opened my bag and pulled out my bear. "Whenver you get sad or miss Mummy, you hold Sark close and remember all the happy times. Remember the lake." She kissed my forehead and pressed the bear into my arms. "I love you baby. Forever." She picked up my bag and took my hand in hers. "It's time to go."  
  
This time, as I crossed the few feet of dusty to concrete to Irina, I put up no struggle. I knew it was hopeless. My mother's eyes were steely, her thin shoulders firm. She wasn't budging on this isssue and I wasn't going to be able to convince her otherwise. Irina was waiting for us, her dark eyes monitoring my every movement. "Are you ready?" she asked me and I nodded yes. I wanted to fight, to run away, but to where? My mother would only bring me back and I had a feeling Irina would hunt down like an animal.   
  
She held out her hand and I warily put my own in hers. Her skin was soft, cool, almost comforting, but I refused to relax. I was a child born and bred on the streets. I didn't trust this woman and I wasn't about to let my guard down. Instead, I did what my mother had always told me to whenever she left at night. "No tears, baby," she'd insist. "Be strong. Make your Da proud." I'd never met my Da, had no memories of him, but for my entire life I'd struggled to make his memory proud. "To be a man," as I always imagined he would have said.   
  
As I followed Irina out of the warehouse, ignoring my mother's wracking sobs, I did my best to be a man. I forced all emotion from my face, my voice, my mind. I refused to let her know what I was thinking or feeling, or more importantly, that the command she'd taken over my life had affected me at all. I became a blank mask, able to contort into whatever façade Irina wanted, but never revealing the person underneath.   
  
There was a black limosine waiting outside and she gestured for me to get in. I slid across the plush seat, watching my mother through the tinted window. There was a man with her and I recognized him as one of her better clients. It was his last visit that had paid for the clothes I wore. As the limosine pulled away and my mother became a speck in the distance, I didn't know whether to love or hate her, thank her or curse her. I knew that in her heart she thought she was doing the right thing, letting another woman give me the life she couldn't, but looking into Irina's eyes I couldn't help but wonder about the woman she'd chosen.   
  
"That's a pretty bear," Irina said, pointing at Sark. "I haven't seen one like it in years."  
  
"It was my Mum's," I said proudly, raising my eyes to meet hers, challenge her, let her know I wasn't forgeting about my life before her. I wanted her to know she could own my body, but not my mind. That was mine to do with as I chose.  
  
"What's it's name?" she asked.  
  
I took a moment to answer. "Sark."  
  
She smiled suddenly and eyed the bear. "Sark," she murmered to herself. "What an interesting name."  
  
I ignored her for the rest of the trip, remaining silent all the way to the airport and during the flight to Russia. She showed me to my room in her chateau outside Moscow, told me I could have all the toys and chocolate I wanted. But it wasn't candy or model trains I desired. . .I just wanted my Mum back. . .but she never came. I never saw her again, never learned what happened to her until I was sixteen, when I found her grave in a Paris cemetary. It was plain, unidentified, lost in a sea of tombstones belonging to other nameless whores. I had her moved home to Erin, to a country cemetary where she could surrounded by flowers and trees and bright sunshine. If she couldn't have beauty in life, I was only too happy to give it to her in death.   
  
Once I was Irina's I never spoke of my mother again. Everything about my new life wasn't mine: my clothes, my home, even my name. Irina named me Alexander, a good, Russian name, the name of Czars; she called me Alex for short. No one called me Conor again for twenty years. I let Irina train me to be her prized killer, allowed her to use me in her mind games, her plans. For all intents and purposes I was her toy, her pawn, no more meaningful than the men she used and threw away. I let her have my body, my skills, my capabilities, but I never gave up my mind. I tried to remember my mother the way she was when I was a boy, but time faded the memories and soon I could no longer remember the sound of her voice or the feel of her hair or touch of her hands smoothing over my brow. By the time I was ten I could no longer remember the curves of her face. But I remembered her love, her devotion, her sacrifice, and I kept them deep inside the recesses of my memory where no one could touch them--especially not Irina.  
  
When I turned eighteen she told me it was time to go out into the world, time to take my place as her whipping boy. I'd been training for this my entire life; it was time to show everyone what I could do. She told me to pick a name for myself, create an identity I could slip off and on like a second skin. She wanted it to be clever, mysterious, dangerous. She said she'd give me time to think it over, but I didn't need time. I already knew who I wanted to be.   
  
She looked up in surprise, her eyes widening a bit over her reading glasses.  
  
"So soon, Alex? Choose carefully."  
  
I sat down across from her, locked my eyes with hers, not unlike the day we first met. "I've already decided."  
  
"This isn't a casual decision, Alex. The entire world is going to call you by this name. Make sure it's something your comfortable with."  
  
I laughed, but there was no humor. "Irina, I've been shedding identities since childhood. There isn't a person in this world who knows who I am--not even myself. I don't need time. I already know who I want to be."  
  
"Yes. . .Alex." I knew she wanted to call me by my first name, my real name, but she couldn't--because she'd killed the ghost of Conor Delaney eleven years ago, killed him good and dead, and there was no way to bring him back. I was Alex Derevko now; better to let sleeping dogs lie.  
  
"Who are you going to be?"  
  
I crossed my arms over my chest, smirked broadly. "I think I'll be Mr. Sark."  
  
She laughed, with humor. "Like your bear? Do you still have that thing?"  
  
"I made my decision, Irina. Is it acceptable?"  
  
I made it clear I wasn't changing my mind and she understood. "Yes, I think that will do." She looked down at the files she was reading. "I have work to do. Our plane leaves for Budapest in two hours. Are you ready, Alex?"  
  
"Alex is dead."  
  
She glanced up in surprise, nearly knocking over her files. " Yes, of course," she said hastily. Are you ready, Sark?" She smiled at my nod of approval.  
  
"I'll go pack my bags."  
  
~ * ~  
  
Upstairs in my room I carefully packed my guns and ropes, Kevlar vests and tranquilizer darts--the tools of my trade, things familiar to my life. But nestled at the bottom of my bag was a dirty brown bear with a faded star on his stomach. I knew I shouldn't have it, should have gotten rid of it years ago when I shed my Conor skin, but I hadn't been able to part with him. I could still remember the sparkle in my mother's eyes when she laid him in my arms, still hear her laughter as she twirled me around our tiny flat on Christmas morning. It was all I had left of her, all I had left of a boy named Conor. And until I slept beside her in a grassy field in County Cork, a tattered bear with a gleaming eyes would have to do.  
  
~ * ~   
  
Please, please, please respond! 


End file.
